


A Certain Distance

by Stingalingaling



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Fix-It, Gen, Jealousy, M/M, Obliviousness, Pining, Season 5 Fix-It, characters ill-equipped to deal with emotional maturity, no-one important dies, sigh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2020-09-29 13:45:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20437010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stingalingaling/pseuds/Stingalingaling
Summary: John struggles to understand his feelings towards Harold. It might take him a while. UPDATE: so it took him five chapters, but that's only half the battle...Season 4/5 fix-it.





	1. Chapter 1

Detective John Riley, pulling aside the shoulder of his hospital gown to inspect his latest bullet wound, grimaced at his still pale reflection in the mirror, and all the while John Reese wondered how in hell he’d gotten to this point in his life. In his next go-around he was going to ask for superpowers - he didn’t need x-ray vision or anything like that - just the power to not get shot every other month would make a nice change.

John finished up in the bathroom and went back to his hospital bed. In truth it had been the hypothermia that had nearly killed him this time and, but for Fusco, sheer cold might easily have succeeded where more tangible past attempts had failed. It was a sobering thought though, on the upside, having been injured on police business, the department was picking up the medical tab this time and it was certainly pleasant to have official doctors and nurses fussing over him rather than Shaw’s brutal bedside manner and Finch mooching around the safe house and looking helpless.

There was a knock on his door and Lionel’s voice rang out.

“You decent in there, lover boy? Someone’s here to see you.”

John sat back with a hint of a smile. There were a lot of cameras on the wards, and he knew that having the college professor who he’d once arrested for vandalism visit him in the hospital could arouse Samaritan’s suspicion, but he was pleased all the same that Harold had come. Maybe he’d looped the cameras or something? That was Finch’s style.

The door opened but Lionel ushered in not Professor Whistler, but Dr Iris Campbell, smiling nervously. John forced a warm smile by way of return.

“How are you, detective?” she asked formally.

“I’m fine, and you, Doctor?”

“Oh please,” Lionel huffed. “I’m going to get coffee, you two want coffee? I’ll be about ten minutes, _getting coffee_.” And he rolled his eyes as he closed the door behind him.

“I take it he knows about us?” Iris ventured.

John nodded. “But Fusco’s very good at looking the other way.”

“And he did save your life so I guess he’s invested in you.”

“Yes. Yes, he’s the one who found me.”

He was grateful for that and yet something about it rankled somehow, in some way he didn’t totally understand. After all they were cops and Fusco was his partner. It was only natural he’d be the one to track him down. He shrugged off the doubts, aware that Iris was giving him one of her insightfully shrewd looks.

“John? I’m not your therapist anymore, but you know you can tell me anything, right?”

He tried to meet her eyes. There were honestly quite a lot of things he couldn’t tell her, the most recent of which being that the ghost of Joss Carter had pretty much kicked his ass into staying alive, but he nodded to Iris. It had been an hallucination of Joss he reasoned, but she’d still thrown in some biting home truths about his shitty track record at relationships along the way. He forced a smile and, bearing in mind that ‘not keeping people at a distance’ had been a key Ghost Carter message, John extended an encouraging arm and Iris slipped her shoes and lay on the bed next to him. They kissed a little and snuggled, and to John it felt nice: that this was what a normal life was supposed to be.

“It made me take stock a little,” he offered up. “Think about some old friendships, new partners. Fusco didn’t let me down, did he?”

“No of course he didn’t.” They kissed again, with a little more urgency until John pulled back self consciously.

“And he’s going to be back with coffee soon,” he reminded her.

Iris giggled, rose, found her purse and checked her makeup. She stayed an awkward five minutes after Fusco’s return then excused herself to go see patients.

“I’d gotta be going too,” said Fusco. “Crime doesn’t fight itself you know - even if kneecappings are down a bunch.”

John grabbed his arm and said in a low voice, “Finch?”

“He checks in, asks about you, but no, I haven’t seen Glasses or Poison Ivy in about a week.”

“He’s not asked for your help with anything?”

“Nope. I guess things must be slow at Hero HQ. Maybe he’s just grading papers, or maybe waiting for you to get back?”

“Or maybe he has Root now, for emergencies.” John had tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but Fusco took it as an invitation for concern.

“Yeah, about those two...,” he began cautiously. “Is he, you know, safe with her? I mean I get they must have hugged it out over the whole drugging, cutting and kidnapping carpoozle a while back.” Fusco stopped, put his hands in his pockets and rocked his head a little, weighing his words. “I just mean, what with that heart scare he had, can we rely on her to look out for his best interests?”

Ah, the heart scare!

Finch had had his own recent brush with death and typically hadn’t told Fusco all the details. Frankly, John wondered if either of them would have ever found out anything about it if he hadn’t spotted the silver foil of medication on Finch’s desk, looked up the name of the tablets, and then demanded a full and frank explanation. John had glared the whole time as he’d listened to the most idiotic game of chicken he’d ever heard of, and Harold had glared right back as he spoke, insisting he was fine and not John’s concern.

“She got him medical assistance, I understand,” John said grudgingly.

“Yeah, though if you ask me, she probably scared him half to death in the first place.”

Fusco left him with that less than encouraging comment, and after closing the door, John spoke to the empty room.

“Joss, I hope you haunted the hell out of Harold too, because there’s a guy who takes ‘keeping his distance’ to an Olympic standard.”

Apart from when it came to Root, he thought bitterly.

Because John didn’t understand their weird ass relationship any better than Fusco did. When he’d first met Harold, he’d assumed the man was gay. It was nothing he could put in words, and he certainly wasn’t sexually interested himself, but he just hadn’t thought his mysterious employer was straight. Then the infamous Jordan Hester ecstasy evening put paid to that theory. Finch was clearly just as liable as the next guy to follow his dick after a pretty girl who smiled at him, so John had revised his opinion to straight, but inexperienced, probably never had more than a couple of dates with anyone. And then suddenly there was Grace Hendricks and the evidence of a four-year live-in relationship and John gave up thinking about Harold’s sex life, because even if Grace had been his one and only, Finch had still managed a hell of a lot better than he had.

And now Root? No, John couldn’t really believe that, could he? She was distraught at losing Shaw, clearly in love with her and so her relationship with Finch was more, what exactly? She’d exerted a strong sense of ownership of Harold from the beginning. Like she had some ancient prior claim because she worshipped the Machine he’d built. Like that gave her the right to tease him and take his arm or hold his hand. Little touches that John used to-, little touches that John thought inappropriate given she was borderline psycho, even if she was on their side of the border these days. Finch really should have had more self-respect than to allow it.

John heaved a regretful sigh. The doctor was going to discharge him soon, and then he’d get his phone back – both phones – and go back to his job - both jobs – and everything would be as before. Because if Harold Finch was going to keep his distance from him and hang out with Root instead, then so be it. John Reese was an adult and a professional and it wasn’t going to upset him.


	2. Chapter 2

_“Can you see me?” _

As he watched Harold and Root staring intently at the monitor, and specifically at the cursor that did nothing but blink, John felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. They all seemed to be holding their breaths as the minutes passed with no communication. He allowed himself a moment to reflect on the crazy circumstances that had got them to this point, the Machine compressed into a briefcase, the race for their lives escaping Samaritan agents, Russians, PlayStations, fires, improvised coolant, and yet now, at the very end, it all seemed to have been in vain. Perhaps all the damage it had suffered had been too much and the Machine was dead?

Root repeated Harold’s question but even her voice was faltering. Another minute passed and then Finch began to power away at a keyboard with Root’s head practically on his shoulder. Feeling redundant, John withdrew and tidied away his liquid Nitrogen and took a trip to the bathroom. They did have the two best tech minds on the planet working in the problem, and though he privately thought that maybe turning the thing off and on again might be the answer, he kept his opinion to himself. For twenty minutes he busied himself checking and cleaning the armoury before approaching the subway car. There didn’t seem to have been any progress.

“How’s it going?” he asked softly. Only Root looked up.

“Whatever code we managed to save is encrypted,” she replied. “We can’t tell what’s left of her in there until we figure out the decryption.”

“Didn’t you code it, Finch?”

“Only initially,” Harold snapped as he typed. “The Machine seems to have made some improvements over the years.”

“It can do that to itself?”

Finch didn’t answer, but then he had that ‘communing with technology do not disturb’ look about him that John knew so well.

“Harold designed it to protect herself from hackers,” Root explained, then added with a tight smile, “Although rival ASIs bent on world domination, not so much.”

Feeling left out of the loop, John asked, “What can I do?”

Finch didn’t even look up from his workstation as he spoke.

“Go back to the day job, Detective Riley. Maintain your cover story and let me do my work without…” He paused to glare at Root as she leant across to type something. “Without interruptions.”

* * *

Six hours later and John found himself in charge of a multiple homicide crime scene. He couldn’t remember when he’d last slept, but he did appreciate the irony that he was officially investigating the same warehouse he and Root had shot up and stolen the PlayStations from earlier that day. The dead Samaritan agents had been removed and whoever had done the tidy up had done their job well because the forensic people seemed satisfied that the layout of the bodies told of a Russian gang having had a falling out. John was not about to correct them, not when he remembered shooting a couple of them himself.

There was one young detective who looked unsure and wanted to wait for the final ballistic report, and while John was pleased to see she had good instincts, he nevertheless toed the official line and didn’t encourage her. Besides, Fusco had called him to complain that Ballistics were saying his gun matched the shots pulled from Dominic and Elias, and if the bullets from a high calibre rifle could be made to match to a police handgun, then a few dead Russians would pose no problem for Samaritan. What did that mean for the world? If sufficiently motivated, Harold and Root could probably hack police systems for the same ends, but an immoral ASI could do it effortlessly in a split second and that was frightening to think about. The world had changed to put all its information on computers, and now a computer could use that to change the world.

If the Machine was really gone, what would that mean for him? There would be no more numbers and he’d be stuck pretending to be a cop - until what? And what would Finch do? The secret base of operations would be useless. Where would Root go? Would she embark on some vengeful mission against Samaritan, and would Harold join her? That wasn’t a happy thought. He had a lot of confidence in them, but could they really prevent an AI apocalypse without the Machine?

“Deep thoughts, Detective?”

He hadn’t even noticed the Coroner’s team arrive. Four officers smiled and waited for him.

“You’ve no idea,” he murmured softly. “You’re cleared to take away the bodies.”

He drank some coffee and watched the process of bagging and tagging. He was beyond tired, but he couldn’t stop the questions swirling around his head. The thought of Root and Finch playing cyber Bonnie and Clyde was alarming, but worse, what if Harold was done? If he couldn’t save the Machine, would he walk away completely? What if John went back to the subway and found it empty? He swallowed hard. What if Finch didn’t need him anymore?

***

_He'd gained a professional respect for the way Root had no hesitation in spraying Samaritan operatives with automatic fire. He’d been trained to do it, but she just jumped right in, with the necessary level of detachment. Finch looked a little queasy, but John appreciated her commitment. What she laid down went beyond mere covering fire, it was wholesale carnage, but it gave them time to escape from the power sub-station and run a few blocks with himself taking point._

_“Mr Reese, we have to slow down. We have to think this through.” _

_“Harry’s right. We’re too conspicuous like this.”_

_John reluctantly stopped and they gathered in an office doorway. They had cut down the first wave of agents but there would be more. Samaritan could see them on all the camera feeds and direct endless resources to kill them. “We need better cover,” Root advised._

_“No.” John gestured to a late-night street market up ahead. “We need more people.” _

_They slipped in and blended between shoppers inspecting and buying from the lively multi-coloured food stalls. There were no cameras in the market itself, but that would only buy them a small amount of time. Finch led them to the busiest, noisiest section where extravagant chefs were providing a show of contravening public fire law safety by incinerating everything with wild flashes to the delight of a crowd. _

_John asked, “Is the Machine still working in that briefcase?”_

_He’d been a little preoccupied fighting a small army to keep up with the technical specs. All he knew was that the Machine was now portable, and that Finch was white knuckling the case as if his life depended on it._

_“_ _No,” Root replied. “We’re on our own. My cover identity will be offline, but you two were hard-coded.”_

_“_ _Although Samaritan will be pattern matching the three of us as enemy combatants every time it picks us up on a camera,” Finch countered. “I’m guessing if we turn up somewhere on our normal locations of behaviour it will identify us as Whistler and Riley again and lose its lock.”_

_“_ _But there’s still the bloodhounds to avoid and the three of us together are easier to spot.” Root looked at them both intently. “We need to split up.”_

_“I’m not leaving Harold,” John said._

_“We don’t have time for this, Mr Reese.”_

_Root couldn’t resist beaming at him. “Man’s Best Friend?”_

_“Or that,” added Harold sharply. “However, Ms Groves is right. We have to separate and make our own way back to the subway station.”_

_“I don’t like it, but if you insist,” John pulled a handgun from his pocket, “then you need to take this.” _ _Shielding it from the shoppers around them, he offered it to Harold. “It’s time, Finch. You need to stay alive.” He tried a persuasive smile. “Think of it as a noisemaker.”_

_But Finch shook his head._

_“You don’t have enough ammunition for me to be wasting it. Use it to keep yourselves alive.”_

_Root gave a flash of anger._

_“Then you can’t take the Machine with you, Harry,” she said. “If you won’t protect yourself then how can you protect her?”_

_There was a loud crash and from the pyromaniac chefs’ stall and some cheering and applause broke out around them. John watched as Harold breathing hard, fought his emotions and then made his decision. Instead of taking the gun, he handed the case to John._

_“Good luck to us all,” he said simply and melted away into the crowd._

_Root nodded thoughtfully at the gesture and said, “He’s counting on you, Lurch. See you on the other side.” And then she too slipped away._

***

Finch had needed him then, he remembered. Initially he thought he’d given him the case to prevent him from following, to make him make his own way, but he understood now. Because something in the last two days had changed in Harold’s attitude to the Machine. Since its compression, he’d been defensive, protective, paternal to it almost. Harold clearly loved his creation and he’d trusted it, not to Root, but to John. Sure, he might have complained that it had been a little shot up, and he may have been shaking with anger when John opened the case with their only, albeit rather large, power drill. But nevertheless, he had trusted him to deliver the thing he held most precious. Not because he thought otherwise John would simply follow him and die trying to shield him, but because Finch knew he would protect the case with his life _and_ bring it home. He’d wanted them all to make it back safely and John felt a glow of pride that he hadn’t let him down.

However, his warm thoughts were interrupted by a buzz in his ear telling him there was a text on his encrypted phone. As his shift was nearly over, the bodies gone, and Uniforms were putting the final seals on the scene, he stepped outside to read it. It was from Root:

Get back now URGENT Harold in danger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So farewell Carl Elias. Although the show allowed the NYPD, FBI and Samaritan to overlook the fact there was no actual goddamn body, I can’t jump through enough hoops to make that even remotely plausible. You were a great character though. Rest in Peace.


	3. Chapter 3

John risked a precious two minutes on street reconnaissance before entering their subway HQ. If there was someone watching, then he was prepared to concede they were damn good at it. The important thing was that life seemed to be going on as normal with no signs of any recent military assault. Root had had time to text him the warning, so he was guessing she’d also have had the time to put up a violent defensive line if she could. Of course, Samaritan’s agents could have slipped quietly inside, killed her by now and be holding a gun to Harold’s head. If that were the case, John gripped his gun tightly, there would be no pleasantries and he would not miss a single target.

Creeping down the left-hand side of the stairs, he kept to the shadows, but maximised his field of view. Something was wrong. It was eerily quiet with no smell of gunfire and no tell-tale spent cartridges on the floor.

“You made it!”

Despite her irrepressibly perky welcome, Root, with dark circles under red eyes, looked pretty much how he felt. John clicked the safety back on his gun although, if she’d dragged him across town just to make an urgent coffee run, he might still be needing it.

“What’s going on?” he hissed. “You said it was an emergency.”

“It _is_ an emergency. Harold and I may kill each other sometime soon.”

John considered checking the safety again to make a point, but Root was already pulling on his sleeve and leading him into the alcove Shaw had reluctantly set up as refuge with an army cot. He noticed some of her clothes were still crumpled as a makeshift pillow, evidently not even Harold had wanted to disturb anything.

“Seriously, John, you have to make him stop and take a rest. He hasn’t left the subway car - hasn’t even left his chair - since we decompressed the Machine. It's been seven hours now and he can’t have slept in the past two days. It's sheer stubbornness that's keeping him upright, but it’s going to kill him if he doesn’t stop.

“We’re getting no response from the Machine and he’s desperate to crack the encryption - we both are - but he’s going around in circles now. He's making mistakes, John, and having to do things over. I’m exhausted, he’s beyond exhausted, and amazingly, I’m being the Sensible One here, so you need to make him stop so we can all get some sleep.”

An exasperated cry of “Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!” rang out from the subway car. John couldn't remember having ever heard Finch swear and Root read his mind.

“Exactly. And I've kidnapped him and shot people in front of his eyes and we didn’t get language like that. Talk to him, or arrest him or whatever him, but stop him before he drops dead over the keyboard. And if all else fails, give him this.” She produced a loaded hypodermic. “Don’t look like that, it’s just a sedative,” she said sweetly.

John regarded it warily. Root had always been quick with the pharmaceuticals and it begged a question.

“So why don’t you stick him with it?”

“Because he’s only just gotten over the last time I drugged him,” she explained as if that should’ve been obvious to him. “If we are going to be able to salvage the Machine, then I’ll need to be on speaking terms with him. Come on, John, it’s your turn to be the bad guy. Please.”

As he entered the car, he was left in doubt Root’s assessment was correct: Finch looked worse than he’d ever seen him before. He’d rolled up his shirt sleeves and removed his tie for business, but his face looked sallow and grey despite two days of stubble and his hair was mussed and sticking up unevenly. His hands were part shaking, part thumping on the backspace key. He didn’t even look away from the monitor to acknowledge John’s presence.

“Mr Reese. No homicide to take care of?”

In the corner of his eye, Root was making an exaggerated mime of using the hypodermic.

“Not so far,” he said, scowling until she went away. “How’s it going, Harold?”

“What? Well, apart from the world is at the mercy of an unfettered ASI and our best defence is on three hundred burnt out PlayStations that might as well be house bricks? Everything is going just great.”

Keeping a steady external demeanour, John nevertheless mentally blew out his cheeks.

“Yeah, apart from that,” he replied in an even voice. “Root says you need to sleep.”

Finch was incredulous. “And you're taking her side?”

“It’s time to take a break. Let’s go to your apartment.”

“No! We don’t have time for that. She’s in here somewhere, I just need to figure out how to reach her.”

“And you’ll work it out,” John said steadily. “Just not right now.”

Getting no reply for his pains, except for an increased pitter patter on the keyboard, John’s own exhaustion tipped over into angry exasperation.

“So help me, Harold, I will pick you up and carry you over my shoulder if I have to.”

It was a mistake as soon as the words left his mouth and he knew it. As he took a step forward, Finch, despite his clear fatigue, bolted awkwardly out of his chair and held it as a barrier between them.

“I don’t respond well to threats, Mr Reese,” he replied tersely.

John kicked himself for his forwardness. It had been said in the heat of the moment, but Finch wasn’t going to allow him any liberties and John knew his bluff was called. They stared at each other for an eternity and change. John, having backed down, grew calmer as the seconds past and eventually Finch, looking like he felt a little foolish, stopped gripping the chair like his life depended on it.

it was still John who was the first to break the silence.

“You’re right, I would never hurt you. But you know you’re not helping the Machine by being like this.”

“I’m not leaving her, not again,” Finch responded, but whether John’s arguments had got through or the effort of standing had been too much, he was beginning to look licked and he grudgingly added, “I suppose there is a spare mattress in the supply room.”

John took a step back and waved a hand.

“After you.”

His gait was markedly worse than usual, but John sensed he was not welcome to lend a supportive arm. As he followed on to the supply room, he noticed Root had already donned an eye mask, turned the lights off around the army cot, and was curled up with a black sweater. The Order of Lenin was hanging from the bed frame: one of Shaw’s few personal possessions he guessed Root had gathered up. He envied the simplicity of her devotion.

He hadn’t been in the supply room for a few weeks and was surprised it had been cleared and swept and a new full mattress, large enough for two, was on its side, waiting to be unwrapped.

“How did you get a bed through the vending machine?”

“Well obviously I didn't,” Finch replied, rubbing his neck whilst leaning against the door frame for support. “I had it delivered two stops up the line and picked it up with the train.”

John pulled it down, stripped the packaging and pushed it headfirst against the far wall.

“I didn’t know the subway car moved,” he said conversationally as he worked.

“How else do you think it got here?” Tired Finch was evidently snippy Finch.

“I didn’t know the subway car _worked_,” John clarified.

Finch shrugged. “It does now.”

With a sigh he pushed himself off the door frame and, pointedly ignoring John’s outstretched hand of help, sat down with some difficulty on the mattress. As John unwrapped pillows and a blanket, Finch took off his shoes and swung his legs over. Then, with a mild glare of childish defiance, he pushed himself along so he had his back against the wall, and folded his arms.

John assessed the situation, decided it was time for decisive action and dropped his pants. There was a certain satisfaction in seeing Harold wet his bottom lip nervously.

“Mr Reese, what are you doing?”

“I'm getting into bed with you, Finch.” Harold’s blue eyes were pretty much saucers. “You’re not the only one who’s had a rough couple of days. I’ve been tortured, I’ve fought off an army and I’ve still got to hold down my day job. I’m exhausted and I am not sleeping on the floor.”

“Then you should take the bed and I'll-” Finch’s feeble attempts to go back to the Machine were cut short as John threw a blanket at him. “…And I suppose I’ll take this side,” he mumbled, shaking the cover open for them both then, in final acceptance, he put his glasses down carefully and laid his head on his pillow.

Leaving his shirt and boxers on, John turned off the storage room light, left the door ajar so they weren’t in complete darkness and laid down on his back next to Harold. He hadn’t been entirely truthful about needing to not sleep on the floor. In the army he’d acquired the ability to sleep pretty much anywhere and at will, but he was damned if he was going to let Finch slip past him and go back to work, and sharing a bed seemed the best way to stop him. Unfortunately, it also meant he couldn’t really settle until Harold did. And glimpsing at his fidgeting profile, Harold’s brain, even Harold’s exhausted brain, was having difficulty switching off.

“What is it? Are you worried about rats?”

Harold flicked nervously at the doorway.

“Well, I _hadn’t been_…”

“Don’t worry,” John joked. “If any come near us, I'll shoot their kneecaps off.”

Finch jerked his upper body up in alarm.

“You've brought a firearm to bed?” he said wildly, dragging and pulling the blanket around him.

“Relax. It’s not like it’s under the pillow.” But it took his (non-) sleeping companion a few moments to calm down and accept the situation.

Reluctantly Harold admitted, “I suppose we are wanted fugitives. It does make sense for you to keep a weapon within reach. I’m sorry.” He settled down again, but only after they’d fought mildly for allocation of blanket coverage. John shifted around to face him.

“I get that you're a very private person.”

“Who likes his personal space,” Harold reminded him, pulling the blanket that had rucked between them.

“But just let it go and try to relax.”

“That's easy for you to say. It's my first time in bed with a hulking 6ft 2 assassin.”

“You think I hulk?”

“Relatively, yes.”

It was probably a fair comment but John rolled completely over to face the other way. If Harold wanted personal space he could have it, for his part, he’d had had enough and just wanted to sleep.

“What if Root comes in now?” Harold asked with renewed anxiety.

“You should have thought of that and got a bigger mattress,” John replied sleepily.

Unexpectedly, Harold gave a low chuckle at that joke. It was a surprisingly deep laugh that did something warm and fuzzy to John’s belly. He liked that his attempt had humour had worked. Harold needed to laugh more. Since Samaritan’s rise he’d barely seen him smile, and he had a nice array of smiles that John missed.

Perhaps the laughter settled him too because Harold shifted awkwardly onto his side leaving them facing away from each over and, feeling the tension slip from his friend and his breathing became shallower, John closed his eyes to allow himself the rewards of sleep. He could hear the reassuring hum of the air conditioning and if he strained, there was a very distant whoosh of air pressure as a subway train crossed tracks up the line. It was incredibly peaceful below the city; no horns or sirens penetrated that deep and he drifted to happy childhood memories of safety and security.

Happiness then had been brief, but he treasured it along with his thoughts of innocence. Of sleeping at home, protected by an ignorance of the world, before the accident at the plant, the army, the deaths. He’d always been a loner even as a child and without realising it, he thought of Harold and wondered about his childhood. Was he happy? Did he dream? Was he a loner then too?

Thinking of questions that he had no answers for wasn’t going to switch off his brain, so John forced himself to go back to his happier places. When had he last been happy? The threat of Samaritan and the new difficulties that it posed to saving the numbers weighed heavily on all them, and he didn’t enjoy the restrictions being a cop imposed. Things were simpler when it was just the two of them. Finch and his crazy scheme to save people before bad things happened to them. The mission statement implied two months tops before they were both dead and John had signed up because it was a good a way of getting killed as any, but that had quickly changed. The sense of purpose was exhilarating, and working with Finch was… ah, he recollected, Harold Finch, the man who came to the rooftop to defuse his bomb vest or die with him.

He settled further into his pillow. John would have taken that. Dying with Harold seemed incredibly noble. Life was good but death at Harold’s side would have been a fulfilment. He thought of Harold’s nimble fingers unbuttoning his shirt, because of course, only Harold would take that extra care, even though the explosion would have ripped them both apart. But no, it was a nice shirt and he wasn’t going to tug at the buttons. Damn. John smiled. That was when he’d last been at his happiest.

***

He was awake in an instant and took only a second to remember what had happened and where he was. Too many missions behind enemy lines had trained his body to detect subtle changes in background noise, and something was different. He was lying on his side and concentrated his hearing for footsteps or threats but there was nothing in the distance. He opened his eyes and studied the shard of light from outside their supply room for flickering variations, but again, there was nothing. Harold was still asleep next to him, so John cautiously checked his watch - 3.12am - then began reaching for the protection of his gun.

And then it happened again. A tiny shift in his sleeping companion, a breath and then a slight but unmistakable sob. John stopped and held his own breath. Harold was dreaming and whilst it didn’t seem to be a full-on nightmare, it was distressing to him and that made John in turn feel uncomfortable. Because in that moment of clarity, he felt incredibly helpless. Had he been in bed with anyone else, he told himself, he’d have scooted over and put his arms around them. Man or woman, he’d have hugged them without question, but this was Harold and something about that paralysed him. He was a very private person (of course), who liked his personal space (of course). In his relationship with Harold, there was always a distance, and John felt he didn’t have permission to breach it. He wanted to be of comfort, but he couldn’t narrow the gap between them.

There was another soft sob, and John felt his own eyes moisten. This was his friend, his partner, hell, he’d done far more intimate with things with Kara Stanton and she was much more intimidating than Harold Finch. It was now 3.14 and the bad dream showed no signs of ending. He couldn’t just roll back to sleep, not with his friend hurting, and what if it grew to a nightmare, and Root rushed in to hold him instead? That was not an image he wanted to dwell on and so, the man who routinely stared down gangs of hired killers, took up his courage by softly reaching out a hand and resting it on Harold’s arm.

The sobbing quietened immediately on his touch and by gentling rubbing his thumb on Harold’s shirt, John felt a deeper, restful sleep come over his companion. He didn’t remember how long he left it there, maybe longer than he should’ve, but no matter, it made him smile as he fell back to his own deep sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

It was a hot sticky day, but heat was not something John had ever had problems with. New York winters froze his ass off, but summer in the park used to be a treat with its smells of grass, tree pollen and the shouts from the softball fields. He watched Finch, unusually jacket-less, walk away from their makeshift picnic. He knew the slightly stiff leg kick and the roll of the hips so well; he’d recognize him anywhere. Even walking away, there was an elegant inelegance about that gait. John sat and stared at his friend, mildly aware of a certain discomfort that next to him, Root was doing the exact same thing.

***

He woke slowly, shaking the disorientation from his brain, as he recalled he wasn’t alone but that he was with Finch on a mattress in the storeroom. But before he could open his eyes, he became aware of a warm, breathing, heavy weight across his chest. It felt good, but then he swallowed down a mild panic at the thought that Harold was dreamily seeing him as Grace or worse somehow, Nathan Ingram, before his logic finally took a hold. Whoever was sleeping across him was breathing very quickly and had appalling breath. John opened his eyes to confirm his deduction. Yep.

“Hey, boy. Where did you come from?”

Bear responded to his touch and let him tussle his ears affectionately. A look at his wristwatch implied he’d been asleep for almost twelve hours and damn, he must have slept hard because Finch was no-where to be seen. John dressed quickly, hit the head, and wandered out to investigate.

Root emerged from the subway car to greet him. “Aha, Sleeping Beauty awakes.”

“Where is he?”

“Gone out to fetch lunch. He collected Bear from Leon several hours ago – he said something about letting him keep the rats at a distance? He was in a very good mood. I must say, John, a night with you works wonders.”

She beckoned him into the car before he could make any reply. Large sheets of flip chart paper were pinned all round, each covered with immaculate notes and program code. “This,” she gestured, “is Harold’s Brain.”

He took a moment, then declared, “Harold’s brain has very neat handwriting.” At which she smiled although possibly that was at the footsteps that were sounding down the stair entrance as Finch appeared with full grocery bags.

“Ah, Mr Reese, you’re up. Excellent.”

John gestured to the flip charts. “So, are these designs for Machine 2.0?”

“No, no, not needed,” Finch said as he handed around Chinese cartons and chopsticks. “We still have the original. The Machine compressed only its core essentials for transport. I believe the reason she isn’t speaking to us is because she simply can’t. These are the outlines schematics of her ‘senses’. The tools we need to recreate in order to give her back the ability to access, process and respond to data.”

Root added, “It’s like she’s locked in her brain. Deaf, blind and frightened until we can reach her.”

“And you know this because?”

“Because we couldn’t break the encryption,” Root explained, and Finch, who was chewing, nodded.

“When I woke this morning, I realized I really had been beating my head against a wall. The Machine knows nothing except, at her core, she must protect herself, so she was rolling the encryption blocks to defeat my attempts to access her code. She has no means of knowing who we are, no memories of events she can use to even comprehend her existence.”

“And you can fix that?”

“After we’ve rebuilt her input, translation and communications tools, yes. Her memories are basically all in the historical data feeds. Which is a lot simpler than human memory storage. We scatter triggers to perceptions of our historical events in smells, feelings, visual references and then rebuild the narrative of a specific memory in our brain every time. Often incorrectly so. The Machine’s memory has perfect data recall with much easier storage, so it is far more accurate. But she needs to be able to handle that amount of data first.”

Helping herself to some of Finch’s chicken, Root added, “When means we have a lot of work ahead of us to get her back to us.”

“Yes, Miss Groves and I are going to work together. She’s trapped here because of Samaritan, and my college isn’t expecting me back for six weeks, so I can spend most of my time here too.”

They seemed to have everything mapped out. John asked, “What can I do?”

“Nothing really. I suggest you give your full attention to your cover as Detective Reilly. Give out the appearance that everything is as normal as possible. Perhaps see more of Dr Campbell?”

John ate his lunch and stuck around for a couple of hours, but the discussion went way above his head. He couldn’t even arbitrate disputes because they seemed to resolve themselves with diagrams and geek speak. At one point, Finch simply reversed an arrow with a marker pen and Root beamed with pleasure and said, “Yours is a devious mind, Harry”, and that, apparently, was that. John was adrift: he was a software third wheel and he knew it so, telling them to call day or night if they needed anything, he left them to it.

Contact was sparse for the next few weeks and John dutifully leaned into his cover story without enthusiasm. The days started to blur into one as he solved cases, made arrests, filed paperwork whilst all the time missing the numbers and the sense of purpose they gave him. In the past, he’d have gone out looking for crime, but his cover story gave him too much exposure and he was aware that Finch, Root and the Machine were dependent on his not getting caught playing the Hero. Through his responsibilities, he was trapped in the mundane, the day to day, the normal for most people, he supposed, but it would never be normal for him.

Finch’s call to help rob a computer wholesaler was extremely welcome. There wasn’t much to the mission and John easily dealt with the security guards. If he were honest, he didn’t really need Finch to be there at all, but he wasn’t going to tell him that. Harold had provided the stolen getaway truck, which was good, although, watching him proceed to fulfil Root’s shopping list _after_ they had done the heist, probably demonstrated why Harold had never become a criminal mastermind. Dropping the last item of ‘fuzzy slippers – two pairs’ on top of a quarter of million dollars’ worth of stolen servers, John could only shake his head at the man’s priorities.

“Harry, they’re perfect. I love them and so does Bear.”

Why a dog needed a pair of matching slippers was another head shaker. John took the opportunity to assess the other changes to the subway HQ, specifically Shaw’s old alcove and its re-decorations.

“This is your new bedroom, Root? You're into jewel tones? Finch must love that.”

She’d well and truly moved in and it seemed Harold had been obliging her with all manner of creature comforts for some time. The cot looked a lot cozier for one thing, although still blessedly small. John wondered about the mattress in the supply room, did Finch use that alone? He couldn’t think of an excuse to go and check, but he felt mildly proprietorial about that mattress.

Bear seemed very sanguine about the new sleeping arrangements so there were no clues there, but it didn’t take much to see that Finch’s friendship with Root had developed into something warmer. It was inevitable with two people working practically 24x7, but even so, John wanted to fight the assumption that their relationship had become sexual. Of course, it was none of his business if they had, and Finch at least was too professional to let it affect the work they were doing. They were both adults, and John knew very well that they’d both had losses, and that sometimes physical comfort doesn’t mean a grand romance. He’d spent enough time with Kara Stanton to know that. So if Harold wanted to play with fire then…his thoughts were interrupted by Finch, smiling like a fourth-grader, explaining he’d rigged the car doors to work by remote. It seemed pointless but it made him happy. In the past few weeks, quite a lot seemed to have made him happy. John nodded with what he hoped was appropriate encouragement and slunk away.

Within days, having foiled an AI sanctioned assassin, John, against his better judgement, had allowed Fusco to initiate him into the precinct bowling team. Had he understood the implications of the dress code, he might have shot out his own kneecap, but he was committed and, with no time to change, had been forced to attend the team picnic in his magnificent new polyester shirt.

It was Root’s first trip out of the subway in weeks and she was dressed as some short-skirted girl scout leader (leading who to what he could only speculate), and sitting far too close to Harold. He realized she was speaking about him.

“I dread to imagine how he’s going to make the spare.”

“Yeah, well,” Fusco said, as he sat the other side of Finch and helped distribute baguettes and water bottles. “It’s a work in progress. We might even get a smile outta the big guy some day.”

They ate and the three of them enjoyed a degree of comfortable chatter about baseball prospects and Lionel’s son’s progress at school. Mostly, John just sat on the edges of the conversation and fed scraps of his sandwich to Bear. The park was full of kids and their parents and occasionally tourists rattled by in carriages. All signs of normal life, blissfully unaware of Samaritan and what the future it might choose to shape for them.

“Our weird little family,” Root was saying with surprising affection.

John looked up to see Fusco lean forward and lower his voice. “About that. Any news on Shaw?” Heads were shaken. “She’ll probably find _us_ some day, but if she doesn’t, and you get a lead, call me, OK?”

Root looked touched and had nodded. John found himself surprised at the strength of Lionel’s resolve but maybe he’d always a stubborn loyalty, and of course, she had saved his son’s life, then finally he realized it was more than that: they _were_ family. With the Machine and Finch at the heart of it, and himself now on the fringe.

Bear started to get restless and whilst they all recognized the signs, Lionel was the first to get up and grab a baggie. “Yeah, yeah, I got this. I just hope you haven’t been feeding him too much crap.”

He left them to find a more sheltered spot. Root took the opportunity to lean across Harold and address the topic of John’s shirt.

“Are you getting revolving identities too?” she asked sweetly.

He sniffed and shot back, “Are we back to just the one ASI trying to kill us?”

Root dropped her teasing and said, “She’s _really_ sorry about that.”

Harold sought to explain. “The machines memory is evidently more than the data she consumes. She was missing the part she played in events, because that wasn’t obvious in the feeds. She had to build a narrative of her own decisions and actions in guiding us through the irrelevant list; to understand she had more than a passive place in the story, to give her an anchor in time. Once she did that, she stopped seeing everything happening at once and, um, things settled down.”

John recognized that as polite-speak for ‘no longer try to kill us’. He casually looked around and found a security camera and stared intently at it. He envied the Machine the ability to index her place in the world. To have seen a path through all the events of the past and determine who she was and what she wanted. Plus, not sending assassins after him was definitely a bonus.

“Wouldn’t it have been less existential to just time stamp stuff?” he asked innocently. Harold smiled at that, but didn’t answer, instead he got to his feet and grabbed one of Bear’s tennis balls.

“I think the detective could use this to give Bear some exercise. He’s been rather cooped up with us for the past few weeks.”

***

It was a hot sticky day, but heat was not something John had ever had problems with. New York winters froze his ass off, but summer in the park used to be a treat with its smells of grass, tree pollen and the shouts from the softball fields. He watched Finch, unusually jacket-less, walk away from their makeshift picnic. He knew the slightly stiff leg kick and the roll of the hips so well; he’d recognize him anywhere. Even walking away, there was an elegant inelegance about that gait. John sat and stared at his friend, mildly aware of a certain discomfort that next to him, Root was doing the exact same thing.

“It’s good to be outside again in the fresh air.” She smiled affectionately after Finch and confided, “It suits him too. It’s been quite a ride the last few weeks. I’ve never worked with anyone like that before – so intensely. Eating together, sleeping together, arguing about refactoring some of his concepts. Even creating simple tools like audio and voice recognition and yet Harold still pushed us to create software that is massively ahead of anything commercial and yet doesn’t need three server farms to run on. And the testing! The man’s an animal! What?” She paused and looked at him. “Why the glower?”

He wanted to stay silent, but he couldn’t help himself. He had to ask.

“Sleeping together?”

“Of course we slept together, we were too tired to do anything else.” She stopped again as realization spread. “What? Me and Harold? Is that why you’ve been even more sullen than usual, Lurch? Oh, come on, I know I said we are weird family but that would just be _really_ weird. He’s Harold!” John didn’t think that was much of an argument but Root sought to clarify. “He’s not my type, and Harry, hand on heart, was a perfect gentleman. So it never came up.” She couldn’t resist a coquettish smile. “The subject that is.”

John contemplated the intellectual meeting of minds. Root was exactly the partner that Finch needed, John saw that, he should be happy for him...

“Are Harold and I close?” Root continued, breaking his thoughts. “Yes. More so than I could’ve ever have dreamt. He’s the man who created god and we didn’t get off to the best of starts…” John grunted at that. “Anyway, despite all his ‘_it’s just a machine, Miss Groves_’ speeches, he loves her.” Root beamed. “More than anything in the world, he loves _her,_ and it’s been beautiful to see him fight for her.”

They both watched as Fusco threw the ball long for Bear who retrieved it then sped to Harold, circling him until he got the message and he too threw the ball. He couldn’t get a lot of force behind it, but he had a reasonable sidearm action and Bear barked and jumped happily. John stared as the dog played both men in turn, retrieving one throw and returning to the other. Fusco had the greater distance, but Bear wanted more than a long run, he wanted to include Harold who was actually laughing with the game. Bear was a dog that knew his own mind.

Root, meanwhile, had grabbed Harold’s jacket, scrunched it up and, using it as a headrest, laid back on the rug.

“The last few weeks have been better than sex,” she said dreamily, then waved a dismissive hand towards him. “Although your mileage may vary.”

The conversation over, Root closed her eyes and fell asleep. John sat in his bowling shirt feeling a million miles away from everyone in the park. Finally, he began to tidy their plates and bag the rubbish. That at least was something he could do.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for lateness of this chapter. There is also some mild sex which isn’t John/Harold. So, sorry about that too. It’s all in a good cause though.

How many secrets were too many?

John scalded himself in the hot shower, his thoughts racing between things he wanted, things he couldn’t have, and things he shouldn’t be thinking about in the first place. Ultimately, he wanted to scour away the conflict of guilt, exhilaration and shame he was feeling. In the army - even in the CIA - John had been confident he was making the world safer by taking down bad guys. Guilt crept in afterwards but it didn’t enter into his decisions at the time. Since he’d been 10 years-old he’d tried to live up to the expectations he thought his dad would have of him. And now, he couldn’t help thinking that he had behaved badly and that things would never be the same again.

*** 

  
John looked up as Zoe Morgan let herself into the safe house and stood at the top of the stairs. He’d forgotten Finch had given her the access codes after their jury-fixing escapade, should she ever ‘be in need of a place in an emergency’ as he’d expressed it in his usual meticulous manner. She’d been there before of course and John had a strong image of her flanked by Shaw and Carter, happily turning out to help trap what they thought was a serial killer. None of them had known how quickly three would become one. John hoped to god that Shaw was still out there someone, but Carter… Carter still hurt.

For a moment, he wondered if he’d made a mistake in asking her there. Should he be inviting her into danger when the stakes with Samaritan were so high? John had felt restless at Finch and Root being the only members of the team accomplishing anything, and he’d hoped to get Zoe’s input so he could show them he was proactive. Looking at her though, he forgot all his concerns of danger.

Zoe had arrived armed with her usual killer heels, but also carrying a large uptown pizza box. She looked as fabulous as ever. Every single time he’d seen her, John had thought she always looked like she was attending a high-end party, although in her world, maybe she always was. Harold’s phrase ‘_And saying no to Ms. Morgan was never your strong suit_’ floated into his brain.

She gestured with the box. “Got your message and I know how you boys work so I came prepared.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Capizzi’s?”

“Their sauce is to die for,” she explained. “And I know how much of a snob Harold is.” 

She handed off the box and slipped out of her coat, making herself at home. “Is he not here yet?”

“Finch isn’t coming,” he said.

“Oh.” She looked around at closed curtains and comforting lighting with amusement. “It’s going to be that sort of night is it?”

John frowned with his eyes and led her to the conference table by the unlit fire. On it he’d stacked four boxes of paper files, notes, photographs, everything he could find about the government or political missing or recently deceased persons without raising cyber flags.

“Oh.” Zoe repeated with a wry smile and put down her purse. “It’s going to be _that_ sort of night.”

Two hours passed in which John’s only action was to ignore a text from Iris inviting him for supper. He liked to watch people being good at what they did, and Zoe, like Harold, was very good at what she did. She had a better knowledge of people and politics than anyone in the city and she worked conscientiously without comment, thoroughly reading the dossiers, grouping some, discarding others. John absently ate a slice of pizza as he watched her be meticulous about her business. Eventually, she put down the last file and shook her head.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t see any pattern here. I agree it’s odd so many people should disappear or die but I can’t see any one motive. I’m not seeing how any one person or corporation benefits. If there’s a bigger picture, then it’s beyond me.” 

She rose, stretched a little and then walked around the table to John’s side. “But then in my experience people’s motivations generally revolve around money, power or lust.”

“No room for Altruism?” he suggested. “Or love?”

“I don’t think either of those are relevant in this case.” Zoe held his gaze for a moment before adding, “And there’s always guilt. We can’t forget guilt. Speaking of which, we could have done this earlier today of course,” she said as she lent on the table next to him. “You know, in daylight. Unless there was another reason you wanted to talk to me?”

John smiled warmly. “Do I need a motive?”

She held his gaze momentarily then slipped away to Finch’s drinks cabinet, grabbing two tumblers and a bottle of scotch and taking them to the couch. John joined her at the opposite end as she poured. 

“What’s this about, John? Don’t tell me you’re lonely. Don’t you have a therapist for this sort of thing?” He tried to stifle his slight irritation, but she caught it. “She’s not on the team? I see. So is it serious between you two?”

“I like her,” he said stubbornly. “I even met her parents for lunch.”

“My, that is serious. But we tried our time in the suburbs, remember? We were both crawling up the walls. Thank god for whisky and the dog.”

“It wasn’t all bad.” He knew he was flirting as a diversion but so did Zoe who cut right through it.

“We both hated it. You only brightened when Harold showed up and you could tease him.”

She removed her shoes and hooked her feet under her. Somehow, she always managed to look both comfortable and elegant in the same breath.

“We're not holding hands and white picket fences sort of people,” Zoe continued. “We like our secrets. And there comes a point when there are just too many of them. Relationships are a matter of trust. A part of you, like me, just can’t let go. We’re very private people.” 

“Like Harold,” he said gloomily.

“Oh no, I’d say he’s more of a romantic.”

John was incredulous. “He’s the most paranoid, insecure, private, distance-keeping, secretive person I know. Nobody gets close to Harold. He calls it human interaction like it’s an alien thing.”

She sipped her scotch.

“Nevertheless, he dresses very nicely for someone who doesn’t understand human interaction.”

“I dress nicely,” John said stubbornly.

“Didn’t he buy you that suit?” Her eyes dazzled at the victory. “And didn’t he flirt up a date for you with Maxine Angel, the journalist? I’d say he’s got some game.”

“One starving artist doesn’t mean he’s got game!” He realized his mistake the moment he’d spoken. Naturally Zoe pounced on the slip.

“Harold has a starving artist?”

“Had. And she was a magazine illustrator,” he offered reluctantly. With a sigh her gave her the basics on Grace and the engagement. After all even Fusco knew about her so maybe he wasn’t betraying that much of a secret.

Zoe sat back to consider the implications.

“Faking your death is one way of ending a relationship,” she said finally. “Makes it tough to get the ring back though. I’d bear that in mind if I were you.”

They were interrupted as Iris repeated her text about supper, and John, mildly irritated at the way the evening had gone, replied he was on his way. He rose and fetched Zoe’s coat as a firm hint. She looked at him thoughtfully but replaced her shoes and gathered her purse.

“You’re wrong about Harold,” John said as he switched out the lights and closed the door behind them. “He runs from commitment too.”

“I think you’re overlooking he asked someone to marry him.”

The took the elevator in silence and John walked her the two blocks to where she’d arranged her car service.

“Don’t be a stranger, John. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you tonight.” She gave him a friendly peck on the cheek. “Give my regards to your better half.”

It was understood, although John never presumed, that supper with Iris meant sex and a sleepover. She’d always lay freshly ironed sheets for him. Even her Burmese cat welcomed him with some affection, although Bear tended to cold shoulder him the next day.

They had established a comfortable pattern. Iris liked to shower first but rather than kill the spontaneity, John found he liked the suspense and expectation it built. He liked her correctness and he always let her initiate sexual contact.

John lay on his back and held Iris’ hips as she worked herself on him. John always felt a responsibility to allow his female partners to finish first, and he held himself in rigid check. Sex with Kara Stanton had always been more of an exercise in seeing how much furniture they could break. But looking back, it wasn’t passion that ran up the hotel bills, but a mutual unwillingness to cede control. Neither wanted to admit to any sign of weakness. 

His sexual associations with men had never required that level of restraint. They had been strangers rather than relationships, speeding to the finish line in the interests of relief had been central, darkness, tugging, sucking and sometimes money being the cornerstone of the transaction. He’d never spent more than twenty minutes with a man. Just enough to satisfy a pressing need and never long enough to feel he’d lost control. Being bisexual had never bothered him, but the fear of deep attraction was a trap he’d successfully avoided since his army days. In his experience, if he avoided his occasional object of male lust, they generally moved out of his life, probably none the wiser for his feelings. He felt it was an honorable discretion and it had served him well.

He felt safer with women, safe with Iris especially. There was safety in knowing exactly how her body responded. He arched his back in encouragement and worked a deeper angle for her. Her rocking and breathing increased as he’d expected. He could feel her winding it up. Her panting was giving way to a breathy wheezing. She raised her chin, closed her eyes and began to squeak like a chipmunk. Harold wouldn’t do that, John suddenly thought with a flash of pleasure. Harold would growl at him.

And at that moment, John was gone.

  
*** 

John toweled himself off after his hot shower in Iris’ apartment. He should not have been thinking of someone else in her bed. And certainly not Harold who was probably sitting alone in the subway station. No doubt impeccably dressed with a jaunty pocket square, a flawless tie at his collar, and wearing a three-piece suit with all those buttons…

Damn. Those thoughts weren’t helping and maybe it was just an inappropriate crush, brought on by a desire to quit Iris? Maybe it would pass? Damnit. Whether it passed or not, Zoe had been right, and he had to face the situation head on. Fundamentally he could never get close to Iris because he had too many secrets and fantasizing about Finch during sex was not something he should be adding to the list.

He found Iris in the kitchen, wearing the black silk robe he’d bought, making coffee to go for him. Her hair was pinned up erratically and as she poured a cup; her green eyes studied him keenly.

He’d thought about being more open with her for some time, but it was hopeless. He couldn’t share his life with her. For one thing, she’d be appalled, not only at the number of people he’d killed, but also at the fact he’d long since lost count of them. The Finch thing may be an excuse, he realized, but his relationship with Iris had always been doomed. He’d treated her like an undercover assignment, and she deserved better than that.

“What’s wrong? If it was my dad at lunch, then he’s like that with all my boyfriends. He’s a tough sell.”

Her dad had been a straight shooter and John had liked his directness.

“Lunch was great. Your parents were great. It’s not’s that.”

“But something has changed?” she said shrewdly.

He couldn’t lie. “I’m sorry.”

Because he knew he had to walk away. He couldn’t continue seeing Iris. It had been a nice, casual thing, and suddenly it felt like every moment with her was hugely dishonest.

“Is it your complicated side job?”

“In a way. Lots of things. I can’t be this John Riley. I’ve tried, but I’m not being fair to you. I can’t change who I am, and you deserve someone who can meet your parents without blood on his cuffs.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Someone with fewer secrets.”

“Ah. Someday, John, you will forgive yourself and have a normal life. And when you do, I hope you find security and happiness. It’s just not going to be with me, is it?”

He wondered if he should say sorry again, but it felt empty and Iris wasn’t taking the news like she was heartbroken. She’d always read him well and maybe she’d been expecting it? It had been nice for them both and now it was over. Even her cat was no longer interested in dropping hairs on him and had slouched away.

His earpiece buzzed as he left the apartment.

“Mr. Reese, we have a new number.”

Of course, there was a number. There always was. His relationship with Finch was about saving people, not sexual attraction. They were there to do the honorable thing in a Samaritan world going mad. That’s what John’s dad would have wanted. 

As he took the stairs he was filled with thoughts and scant memories of his father: _his_ honor, _his_ dignity. They said his body had been too badly burned in the accident and as a boy he shouldn’t see him. John had let them lower the coffin and receive the flag, with a heavy sense of duty because that was what he was supposed to do. It was a cruel lesson in loving someone and having them be gone. He spent months secretly fantasizing there had been a mistake because he so very much wanted the one thing he couldn’t have. Because the grim fact was when he loved someone, they left him. Whenever he got too close, they abandoned him. His dad, Jessica and then Carter. There was a pattern. And now Finch was the one filling his thoughts. Harold Finch: who had given Grace Hendricks an engagement ring and who, if Samaritan were destroyed tomorrow, would no doubt go back to the woman he loved. And John would never see him again. He was just opening himself up to another doomed relationship.

“Mr. Reese, are you there? Is everything alright?”

Harold was straight, probably. Harold was his friend, definitely. Harold had Grace, period. Besides, nothing else should matter but that John shared a higher calling to save the numbers. That his feelings towards Harold had changed was irrelevant. It was just another thing he had to keep secret. And to keep it a secret he realized, he needed to keep his distance.

“I’m here, Finch. Send me the details. I can’t come to the subway today.”

“Oh.” Was there a trace of disappointment in that voice? “As you wish, John.” And the connection was terminated.


	6. Chapter 6

John dropped the bride’s sister and her posse of hitmen off at the local sheriffs’ office with a nod and a handshake that the paperwork might take till the morning so the family celebrations wouldn’t be disturbed before then. Small towns knew how to juggle the needs of their wealthy citizens so whilst the sister tried to kick up a rumpus, the Sheriff knew it was her parents’ money that carried more weight. It also helped John’s cause that the Sheriff was an army vet who rolled her eyes in disbelief at the sheer overkill, literally overkill, of hiring multiple assassins. “Only the rich kids,” she’d muttered.

His responsibility to the number over, John could have slipped away back to the city. His attendance was no longer required. His plus one status to the bride’s other, marguerite drinking, sister was mercifully only as a trophy. The housekeeper had shrewdly assessed him and given him his own tiny room at the top of the house. The single bed was wedged under an eave and the bathroom was down one flight. It did have a tiny balcony, full of long dead potted plants, but it was hardly the most welcoming room in the house. Initially he’d thought that was because he wasn’t expected to use it, but possibly the housekeeper was giving him a refuge. Drinking Sister would not miss him if he disappeared – not unless he took the tequila with him.

But his attendance was still required in a way, because, like a moth to a flame, he was drawn to Finch’s presence. He’d spent two weeks avoiding Harold’s company, and yet because the Machine had eccentrically not given out a specific number but only that of a marriage license, John had had to deal with his pleasurable discomfort at seeing Harold because they didn’t know the source of the threat. Although had he not known better, John would have said the Machine did it deliberately, because as he pulled back up to the house, he knew he couldn’t just drive away and leave Finch alone. He had to be where Harold was, even if Uncle Ralph was putting on the worst Irish accent ever, ok, maybe partly because of that. John had taken a devious pleasure in seeing Finch out of his comfort zone. He smiled to himself as he entered the reception room, maybe there would be more singing!

To his annoyance though, the night had moved on to slow dancing, and there was some mild locker talk as he slipped in and found himself a drink at the bar. The general theme of the chatter being ‘the luck of the Irish’, which he didn’t understand until he heard more comments reflecting good humor, jealousy, and downright inappropriate encouragement because ‘Uncle Ralph’ was slow dancing with the attractive caterer, and creating a good deal of gossip among the wedding guests. John narrowed his eyes at Harold and Root in, what he told himself, was professional disgust. Attracting this much attention was not his idea of being discreetly undercover. She’d passed on the number of a city planner to Fusco in order to be here and whilst he’d appreciated her help in dealing with the would-be assassins, he couldn’t help thinking that once caterers serve the food, they leave, they do not stick around to pick up cute uncles.

He watched them getting closer and whispering until the song changed to something more upbeat, at which point, Harold and Root still wrapt in each other’s attention and deep in conversation, left the dance floor and departed through the french doors into the night. John felt mildly queasy. Weeks ago, he’d ironed out his worries that Root might be interested in initiating sexual relations with Harold, but what if he was facing the appalling chasm of pain whereby Harold was the one doing the initiating? What about Grace he thought? Although more to the point, what about him?

Perhaps in attempting to maintain his cover as Uncle Ralph, the singing Irish lush, Finch had just drunk too much? That was an idea he could get behind, alcohol might be lowering Harold’s both reserve and standards, so John put down his own glass and set off in a half planned rescue mission.

It didn’t take him long to track them down outside. They weren’t exactly hiding, and though they were sitting together in a garden gazebo, furtively talking in low voices, John was relieved to realize they were arguing about something. He casually sauntered over to shorten the distance without suggesting he had been in any way worried.

“John,” Root beckoned. “Has he told you that the Machine has lost every single one of the simulated battles against Samaritan?”

“It’s still early in the testing…” Harold responded tentatively.

“Every _single_ one,” Root stressed. “She’s outmatched, and we have to do something about that.”

John was intrigued. “Is there something you can do?” he asked?

“Give her the tools to fight back!”

That didn’t sound unreasonable and though he’d inwardly vowed never to take Root’s side of an argument in anything (just out of principle), John looked thoughtfully to Harold for his response.

“Ms Groves, Arthur told me he’d designed Samaritan to not only anticipate acts of aggression but also to suggest strategic countermeasures. It’s built into its DNA if you will, the Machine was never designed to go on the offensive.”

“Then it’s time for some quick studying because we’re losing this war.” Root resumed pleading with Harold, ignoring John’s presence. “The Machine is our only possible hope to save mankind and we’re just sitting on our hands.”

“I’m not sure weaponizing a second ASI is in the best interests of mankind.”

“Then we need to at least expand the open system,” she urged with slightly gritted teeth. “Have her communicate and strategize with us rather than just spit out social security numbers and whimsical marriage licenses. You built her to watch over people, to watch over us, and it will be no fun if all she gets to do is watch us die.”

Harold turned away from her, staring into the middle distance.

“About the open system,” he said, slowly and carefully, “I think it’s time we shut off that access.”

Even John could see that Harold’s statement could’ve been better timed given how worked up Root was becoming. She grabbed his arm.

“Are you insane?” she demanded. “What about Shaw?”

“I have added a subroutine so we will get notification as soon as Miss Shaw is traceable.”

“Not good enough! We need to use the system to find her. We can’t just sit here and do nothing; we have to take risks.” Root stood in anger. “I can’t believe you want to lock out the open system, because I’ve seen the logs, Harold,” she said accusingly and, seeming to remember John was there, she addressed him. “Has he mentioned how he’s being using the open system to spy on Grace in Italy?” John did his best to not look hurt, but it was enough for Root. She turned back to Finch. “Can you really give that up, Harold?”

Finch mustered as much dignity as he could against her onslaught.

“I have checked to see if Grace was OK, yes. It’s a powerful weakness to have access to all the knowledge the Machine has, and yes, I can give it up because what if something were to happen to Miss Shaw or Grace? Could we actually stop ourselves from using that open system for vengeance? And then when would it stop? Where would we stop?”

Root gave an exasperated cry.

“Room key!” she demanded, seemingly randomly, and as Finch looked puzzled, she clarified. “Do you have a key for the room you have been allocated?”

“Er, yes.” Finch pulled it from his pocket and Root snatched it from his hand.

“As the caterer I don’t have a room and I’m not sleeping on the kitchen floor.” She stalked back to the house muttering, “I love you, Harry, but one more of your pissy little arguments and I may do something rash.”

“But that’s…my…” Finch began a stuttering protest. “I mean, where am I…?

“You’re a resourceful guy,” she shouted over her shoulder, “make other arrangements.”

Despite being highly entertained at the outcome, John maintained a composure of granite.

“I think she’s upset with you,” he offered finally. “What are you going to do?”

Finch turned his upper body and gave him a sour look. And then he smiled. “Well, the answer is simple isn’t it?”

***

The answer might have seemed simple for Harold, but for John it suddenly seemed fraught with embarrassment. He led the way up the side stairs to his allocated bedroom, painfully alert to every footfall behind him. Harold had taken it for granted that they could sleep together, and John was maintaining an iron will to prevent himself fantasizing about the possibilities of sharing a bed. It was cruel of course, Harold was simply accepting of their friendship, trusting their partnership, he didn’t mean anything flirty or sexual. He was a little drunk perhaps, but that didn’t mean anything should or could happen, on the contrary, it ruled out any sort of contact in John’s eyes. He had a code he abided by, and Harold wasn’t someone who he wanted to have regrets in the morning.

He opened the door and switched on the lights. “It’s pretty small,” he said although that much was obvious.

Finch immediately looked at the single bed pressed under the eaves.

“This is fine,” he reassured. “And you have a balcony!” He busied over to the open curtains and peered out.

“That’s pretty small too.” John felt he needed to stop mentioning size. “I’ll go get more blankets.”

Practically bolting from the room, John found a linen closet on the floor below and then took to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. He was being ridiculous, he thought. The position was crystal clear, Harold would take the bed, he would take the floor. There was no need for the day to get any weirder.

Clutching a pillow and blanket he returned only to find no sign of Finch and the door to the balcony wide open, but apart from the pots of dead plants, he couldn’t see him there either. On full alert, John pulled his gun, and stepped outside. Some of the larger pots had been stacked up by the railing nearest the drainpipe, and he heard scrapping and a satisfied grunt up above him. Ok, he thought as he holstered his gun, possibly the day could get weirder after all.

He made quick work on to the railing and got a foot on the supporting bracket of the drainpipe. It pulled out from the brickwork a little, but he sprang up and reached for the security of the guttering beams. As he kicked his way up onto the tiles, the drainpipe beneath him gave way completely but he was safely above it. Committed now, John clawed up the sloping tiles to where Finch had perched himself. He was laid on his back and seemingly indifferent to the property destruction below him.

John precariously settled himself down, lying by Harold’s side and then, after waiting a minute, he casually spoke. “And we’ve climbed up here because?”

Harold’s glasses danced in the moonlight as he raised an arm to the thousands of stars in the sky above them. “Because it’s beautiful,” he said by way of explanation. “I had a key to the roof at IFT. I used to go up there sometimes when I had a problem and needed a place to think. This is so much clearer than the city though.”

It _was_ beautiful. John allowed himself to remember times he’d looked up at the sky when he was in the desert. His battles and his wars were simpler then and the enormity of the universe did at least remind him that the rock still turned, no matter what happened. The threat of Samaritan brought doubt into that certainty. Somehow his mission, Finch’s mission, had become so much more than saving single lives. Like it or not, Harold’s Machine was their only hope and he had to broach the subject.

“Root might not be entirely wrong,” he suggested softly.

There was a long pause before Harold sighed, “I know, but I've let her down once. Now she’s depending on me.”

“Root?”

“The Machine. She spoke to me, when we compressed her into that damned briefcase. She… she thanked me for creating her.” He gave a hollow laugh. “That was the first time she’d spoken to me since I wiped her in 2006. I should have trusted her more, but no, I had achieved my goal of an AI that identified threats but that couldn't expand its own capabilities. So I wiped her memories and rebooted her, every day. And she was silent after that, until she started talking to Root.”

“Maybe she was still pissed at you?”

“She needed Root then, I understand that. She wasn’t punishing me, she needed someone with qualities I didn’t have.”

“And now?”

“And now I don’t know what she wants. Root has a point, but I don’t think it’s what the Machine really needs. She’s making choices of her own free will. I don’t want to change that by imposing some warrior subset of code on her. It would go against her basic nature and I won’t hurt her again.”

Far below in the house they could hear the music of wedding party, but it was a distant thud and unnatural compared to the trees around the grounds and paddocks, rustling with a gentle breeze. The stars above filled John’s eyes as he considered his own basic nature. He’d known he was capable of controlled violence from an early age, tackling bullies who’d picked on the other kids. The army had been a natural progression for him, even the transition to assassin hadn’t really been imposed upon him. But if he’d had kids, he wouldn’t have wanted them to go to war just because he had done. It would have had to have been their choice, no matter what the consequences, and this was what was facing Finch.

Finally, John said softly, “You would sacrifice the world to keep your child safe.”

It wasn’t a question or an accusation. It was a statement reflecting the high stakes Harold found himself playing, ever since he’d created the Machine.

“Yes, well,” Finch said, somewhat uncomfortably. “We’ll have to think of something else before it comes to that.”

“It’s not your responsibility to bear alone,” insisted John.

“I've been responsible all my life.” Finch sat upright against the sloping roof. “I’m Life's designated driver. And Whoa.” He looked down in surprise, breaking the moment. “You broke the drainpipe! How do we get down from here?”

Reluctantly John sat up also.

“It depends how much Uncle Ralph has had to drink,” he deadpanned.

“Nathan thought alcohol was good for me, he said it lowered my inhibitions. But I don’t think it’s going to lower me to that balcony.”

John didn’t actually know how much upper body strength Finch had, and he felt it would be patronising to ask. Clearly Finch had gotten himself up there, and anyway if he fell, John was always going to catch him.

“It’s just a bit free-fall for a meter or so. Come on, Harold, I’ll go first and guide you down.” Cheerfully he added, “You always said we'd probably both end up dead.”

“Ignobly falling off a roof wasn’t what I had in mind.”

John inched his way down the tiles and across the guttering to what remained of the drainpipe. Nimbly, he lowered himself as far as he dared before jumping free and, with a slight twist, he landed safely on the balcony, shattering some of the plant pots, but otherwise cat-like on his feet and smiling.

Finch, however, was looking down at him with mild horror.

“I don’t remember that jumpy twisty part getting up here,” he complained.

“Just lower yourself down as far as you can, and I will support you.”

“Oh dear,” Finch grumbled. “This was a lot easier when I was seven.”

He rolled awkwardly to face the tiles and shuffle down backwards. John watched in fascination. Harold was hardly combat fit, but despite his injuries, he’d often demonstrated surprising amounts of stamina and resilience. He couldn’t move very fast, but he could clearly keep on moving for hours at a time if necessary. Luck wasn’t always on his side though, as his jacket became snagged in a crack on the tiles. Most people would have accepted the loss, ripped the fabric and button, and continued down, but to John’s wry amusement, Harold’s respect for clothing surpassed mere practicalities, and he hauled himself back upwards to free it.

Deciding he might be sufficiently distracted, John decided to pick up on his comment. “What did your parents think about you clambering about the roof when you were seven?”

“I never got caught,” he replied off-handedly, grunting as he pulled to release the fabric. “Besides I was always back before…” The button free, Harold stopped, the guard on his tongue was back on full alert.

“Before what?” John pressed. “Morning prayers? Milking the cows? Striking the big top?”

He heard feet scraping and Harold mumble, “If I was circus folk this would be a lot easier.” Then more loudly he said, “I’m not sure which way to go now.”

“Down to your right again,” John advised. “Now reach your right foot out and find the brick edge, don’t put weight on it, just enough to steady you. That’s it. Now your use arms to come straight down, and tell me what ‘before’ means.”

Harold grunted with effort, but John was confident the worse was over. He teased again, “Was is before school? Communist Indoctrination School?”

Harold stopped again. “Seriously?”

John shrugged. “It was a working theory at one time.” He grinned even though Harold couldn’t see him. “Now lower yourself slowly,” he instructed. “You can do this.”

Harold did as he was bid, grumbling all the time, “Because becoming a billionaire and building the United States government a tool of mass surveillance would obviously be the actions of a Soviet sleeper agent?”

John had a hold of his leg and moved to wrap an arm around his torso.

“You might have gone rogue,” he deadpanned. “Slipped your handlers.”

“Having the government of one superpower trying to kill me is not enough for you?” He let go of the guttering, and John grabbed him firmly and pulled him closely to him.

“You always did like a challenge,” he said softly. “And like you say, you never get caught.”

Though it was pretty evident that John was holding him now, and quite closely. One hand had slipped under his vest and was supporting his waist with just shirt fabric separating them. Finch regarded him for a few seconds with a smile, until their comms beeped to interrupt the moment, and he gently moved free and limped back into the bedroom.

“I'm sorry to disappoint you, comrade,” he said with a hint of playfulness as both men checked their phones. It was Fusco and Finch answered first.

“Yes, detective?”

“Finch! What the hell have you guys gotten me into? I’ve found the city planner. And that’s not all.”

John’s phone was flooded with poorly lit photos of decomposing dead bodies. The camera flash made them eerily worst. Finch was also staring at the images in shock.

“Where are you?”

“Tunnel 85, Jamaica, Queens. I traced a permit for its demolition. Guys, these people aren’t missing at all, it’s a serial killer.” He sounded angry, shocked, and nauseous. “What else aren’t you telling me?”

Dimly across the comms John recognized in the background, a pre-blast warning signal. Someone was destroying the evidence ahead of schedule, and Fusco with it.

“Lionel,” he cut in quickly. “Get out of there now!”

But a huge explosion rocked the static almost immediately, leaving only dead air.

Harold spoke weakly, hopefully. “Detective?” And the dead air continued.

They were both to the door and reaching for the handle when John moved his hand to Harold’s arm to stop him.

“Whatever has happened, we can’t both go,” he stressed.

“Clearly Samaritan has happened…” Harold was angry and yet helpless. “Detective Carter, Ms Shaw, Elias, and now the good Detective… Who’s next?”

“No, we don’t know that for sure.” John pushed a hand to Harold’s chest. “You have to stay here. Fusco is my responsibility. He’s my partner.”

He’d meant it as a cop thing, but he didn’t miss the slight hint of sadness that stole over Harold’s face.

“Very well, Mr. Reese,” he said, responsibility washing over him in waves. “I’ll hack into local cameras and police bands. See what I can find out.”

“Good.” John grabbed his unpacked bag and made for the door.

“John, earlier,” Harold stopped him, wrestling with his words and avoiding eye contact. “It was ‘before I had to make breakfast’. That was all I was going to say.”

John nodded his understanding. As much as he wanted to know more about the seven-year-old who had to make his own breakfast and whose problems were so vast that he took comfort in the night skies to think stuff through, Lionel was in trouble and there would have to be another time.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry about the long radio silence there's been on this fic. I'm totally blaming the global pandemic.

It took the fire department and assorted rescue teams 24 hours to dig Fusco out. There was no question of John managing on his own so Finch had called in a tip saying an NYPD detective was caught up in an illegal blast. By the time John got there to confirm his partner was missing, they’d already made contact using Bear’s tracking skills, but removing the debris was a painstaking task. They’d pulled him out with surprisingly few injuries: a concussion, a bruised but unbroken hip, cuts, and general abrasions. The main concern had been dehydration and psychological impact of being trapped for so long, so they kept him in for observations for two further days.

On the morning of his discharge, John sat grimly in the hospital corridor. Lionel had refused to speak to him, or any of them. Even Finch had visited, and Finch hated hospitals. And now John was waiting outside while Root took a shot at it. She’d been in the room for ten full minutes and hadn’t yet been thrown out. Maybe he was listening to her pleas for his safety? Maybe he was still transfixed by her latest identity’s uniform?

John’s earpiece buzzed and he raised a smile. He hadn’t seen Harold for two days, but he was always happy to wallow in the sound of his voice, hanging on every inflection and intonation, and to speculate as to what suit he had on...

_“How’s the detective doing?”_

“He’s still angry. Root is in there with him now.”

_“Miss Groves is not a doctor now, is she?”_

“Traffic cop,” he explained.

_“Somehow that’s no less frightening.”_

John’s smile broadened.

“Where are you, Finch?”

_“JFK.”_

“You running out on us?”

_“No, I’m waiting in Arrivals for our latest number.”_

“Need backup?”

_“It’s an airport Mr. Reese, so there’s already quite a lot of security. Lionel is your first priority.”_

“About that. He’s really angry, Finch, angry and being stubborn.” John lowered his voice even further than usual. “He’s had a close call and he wants the answers that we’ve kept from him. I don’t think we’re doing him any favors by keeping him in the dark. It’s time we brought him in.”

John heard distant flight announcements in his ear as Finch appeared to think it through.

_“Very well. If you think it’s best.”_

“Don’t you?”

_“No, you’re right. We can protect him in ignorance anymore.” _His voice betrayed a sadness._ “We can barely protect ourselves.”_

“Everything OK?”

_“Yes. Ah. My number has landed. Yes, fine.” _He was suddenly rushing and preoccupied._ “Do what you think is best,”_ Finch concluded as a distracted sort of encouragement.

Root came out of Fusco’s room at the end of the exchange. She gave a wry smile at Harold’s hurried half-answer and said, “I love it when he takes charge.”

John’s cheeks warmed slightly but she didn’t seem to notice. “Lionel wouldn’t take the escape packages for him and his son. Are we doing this?” she urged.

“Yes, we are,” John said decisively. “But not here.”

\---

They took Fusco straight to Doyers Street and introduced him to the subway repair station hideout. Mercifully Root, having changed into regular clothes (although inexplicably still wearing the hat), helped John explain the danger of Samaritan and the whole history of Finch, the Machine and the Numbers.

“So, what you’re telling me is….” Fusco paused to take along look around the subway station lair and then back at Root and John. “I’m basically living in a sci-fi movie?”

John had to admit that he’d never really thought about it that way, but then the situation had grown around him. Fusco however was getting the condensed explanation of what they’d kept from him for years, and John could sympathize with his skepticism.

“Pretty much,” Root responded cheerfully. “And.” She learned forward for emphasis, “We’re the good guys.” To which Fusco’s eyebrows told their own story. Although maybe it was still the hat?

He walked with a slight limp to the subway car and looked between it and the platform server stacks.

“And this is… HAL 9000?”

“She identifies as female,” Root clarified.

“Pardon me,” he corrected. “SAL 9000.” He didn’t seem completely convinced. “Shouldn’t there be a ton more stuff? Servers and flashy lights? Because SAL seems kind of a compact girl to me.” He raised a hand to the subway car screens. “No offense.”

“Things have gotten a little compressed,” Root admitted defensively, “but she’s all there.”

To John’s relief, Finch called to check in and he was able to take a few steps away to speak in more privacy.

_“How’s the detective taking the news?”_

“He’s working through some thoughts,” John replied cautiously.

Behind him, he heard Fusco say, “I mean, I knew Glasses had written some computer software to predict crime.”

John’s jaw dropped. “You did?”

“Sure. What? You think Carter and I never compared notes?” Lionel answered contemptuously and then continued his chain of thought, “But this computer program he wrote is actually alive and ‘Good’, only there’s another one, also alive, only it’s bigger and ‘Evil’, and probably going to enslave mankind? And we’re the plucky, yet doomed, resistance?”

“He’s pretty much got there, Harry,” Root called out.

John glared at her and walked further away up the track to resume his private call. “Where are you, Finch?”

_“I’m still in Queens. Following our latest number, James Ko. Mr. Ko is a British commercial lawyer who’s just flown in from Hong Kong. He has no luggage, no meetings in his calendar and he hasn’t gone to his hotel yet. He left JFK - on foot - thirty minutes ago, but apart from failing to hail a cab and save us both some shoe leather, he hasn’t done anything suspicious. So far he’s has only used his phone once to find the nearest medical facility.”_

“Could be a meet, or an exchange?” John said. “How close are you?”

_“Oh?” _He sounded a little caught out_. “Do you think?”_

“Why? Where is he now?”

_“He’s, um, waiting to see a doctor in the ER.”_

John detected a tiny bit of evasive guilt in Harold’s voice. “And you are?” he pressed.

_“I’m in the deli across the street. I’ve paired his phone. I can’t just loiter in the ER.”_

It was time to be firm.

“Invent some mild symptoms and get eyes on him.”

The pay phone in the wall began to ring. Fusco snorted and said, “You guys got a Bat Phone too?”

“Harold, say you’re feeling dizzy. You had that heart scare thanks to Root. Use that.”

_“We didn’t actually involve any official health care services,” _Finch grumbled_. “And it wasn’t exactly a heart scare.” _

“Quit stalling.” John said firmly. “Just go inside and see if he at least looks sick. Root will go through his data footprints here and look for threats.”

_“Fine, fine,”_ he grumbled, and John grinned as the comms cut.

Back at the workstation, Root having taken the Machine’s call was explaining the process to Fusco.

“We then use the Dewey Decimal to give us a social security number. And, oh!” She stared and then rapidly typed into the system. “This time it’s not a social security number, it’s a British passport number: a James Ko.”

Fusco was less than impressed. “That’s all the communication we get? Some random words that leads to a number? Nothing about why she’s warning us about this guy?”

“An excellent question for Harold,” Root conceded.

“No chit-chat? No back-chat?”

“He never gave her a voice, I know, I know. You can ask him that one yourself too. But we do have a partially open system we can query. Give me five minutes and I can find where our boy James is.”

John walked to the workstation in surprise.

“James Ko in a hospital in Queens,” he said. That’s the same number Finch got before.” He hit his earpiece. “Harold, have you got eyes on James Ko?”

_“Yes, yes. I’m inside the ER. And the only threat is me watching him kill a box of Kleenex. Oh. Got to go.”_

Root looked at him. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking the Machine doesn’t do duplicates unless there is a second threat.”

Fusco grimaced. “I guess we’re going back to Queens then.”

\---

John drove over the bridge and tried to focus on traffic as Lionel peppered him with difficult questions, and Root, who’d remained in the subway station, but nevertheless still in his ear, gave chirpy if unhelpful answers. Clearly she enjoyed having an opportunity to talk about the Machine, but she also seemed to be enjoying sharing with Fusco. Maybe it was because he had a better understanding of Shaw than John did? That there was that connection? Either way Root had come a long way from regarding everyone except Finch as ants.

“But it’s an AI?” Fusco was saying. “Can she like predict lottery numbers or sports results?”

_“Absolutely,”_ Root enthused. _“She can do everything.”_

“But Finch built it to prevent terrorism, so no,” John said firmly

_“Spoilsport.”_

“Yeah,” Lionel agreed. “Trust him to stay on task.”

After two blocks, he was back with another awkward question. “So how come this Machine didn’t tell you about all those missing persons getting dead?”

“Best guess,” John said quickly, before Root jumped in. “Samaritan was too quick for us to be able to do anything.”

“So in the tunnel yesterday,” Lionel continued in his train of thought. “When I got blown up? Did you get my number?”

Root was suddenly reticent to take that one and there was an awkward silence for a block and change.

“Great,” Fusco huffed.

“Don’t take it personally,” John stressed. “He programmed it to not play favorites. We didn’t get a warning when Root kidnapped Finch either.”

“You see that seems like a massive oversight right there. What’s the point of building an all-powerful computer buddy if they don’t have your back? I mean, ‘Danger, Will Robinson!’ or what?”

_“In my defense, I was never going to kill him,” _Root said from her high horse._ “And that second time doesn’t count as he wanted to find the Machine as much as I did. In fact, I think he totally played me to help __him__.” _She began to warm to her list of grievances._ “And hey, who committed who to the funny farm? And let’s not forget that time he locked in a cage in his library. That’s gothic level kink, right there.”_

Manfully, Fusco ignored that disturbing dump of information and associated mental imagery.

“I’m just saying”, he resumed. “I’m taking a lot of faith here. Your gal doesn’t seem to do a whole lot.”

John shrugged and said, “Finch worries if it did more, then it would want to rule the world.”

“Like this other one is. With its Eye of Sauron vibe? I guess I can get behind his thinking on that.” Fusco pulled a face. “But those people in the tunnel? And Dominic and Elias... I mean, why should an AI care about a mob war?”

_“It’s filtering people per some objective for Mankind. One our free will isn’t a part of it.”_

Fusco shifted in his seat uneasily.

“I liked it better when it was just HR trying to kill us. You know, simpler times.”

John couldn’t help but agree with him. The world had gotten very strange very quickly. So much had changed since they’d lost Carter. As a military SUV overtook them, he shot a look at Fusco. Joss would have been proud of how her partner was doing.

Root cut into his thoughts. _“Guys, how far out are you? There’s some sort of blackout at the hospital. All the cameras are down, and I can’t raise Harold.”_

John tried his own earpiece and got no reply. He gripped the wheel and sped up. Lionel reached for the grab handle over the door and said, “Jeez It’s not like we weren’t going to the ER anyway.”

There was a military perimeter cordon that deflected even their siren and badges. John was forced to park several blocks away. He strode purposefully, aware that Lionel was limping behind with his hip injury, but clear in his mind, that he couldn’t wait for him. The National Guard were not going to stop him in his objective either.

_“John. You need to be careful. I’m seeing reports of a high quarantine situation at the hospital.”_

“Wait up,” Lionel shouted. “Those soldiers with big, big guns will be to stop anyone getting in or out.”

“Well we’re going to get Harold out.”

_“John, no. It’s shockingly virulent. One person has died and at least six others have symptoms - two are already critical.”_

“Hey.” Fusco caught him by the arm. “We can’t. These are not the bad guys and if Glasses has caught something then, we really can’t bust him out.”

John ground his teeth and tapped his earpiece.

“Is Harold at risk?” he asked.

Root mused,_ “Hard to say.”_

“I wasn’t talking to you,” he hissed. “Ask. The. Machine.”

_“She’s says ‘insufficient medical data on the outbreak’.”_

“Has Glasses at least had a flu shot recently?” Lionel suggested.

_“’Insufficient medical data on Harold Whistler’. I guess he doesn’t like hospitals.”_

“Yeah, well," Fusco noted with grim humor. “He’s gonna really hate this one.”

John stood powerlessly at the edge of the cordon as Fusco worked his charm and got them a detail on the perimeter and a walkie, but it wasn’t enough. Harold was lost to him in a hospital, enduring god knows what. A tiny voice reminded him that if he died, they wouldn’t let him even see the body. John wanted something to shoot but he was totally helpless in the face of a medical threat. He stood and glared and hated every second that passed.


	8. Chapter 8

Eight hours had passed in which John had zealously paced the perimeter cordon around the hospital, counted all the guards and weak points, and yet there was still no word on Finch. Extraction seemed to be impossible without both a tank and a helicopter, and whilst he hadn’t entirely ruled that option out, it did rely on Harold not being too sick to move. In the course of his prowls, he’d surreptitiously checked all the windows for any messages from Finch, and periodically studied his phone, willing it to come to life, but there had been nothing and the feeling of powerlessness was crippling. It was hard to accept that there was nothing he could do.

Evidently Root had a plan though, because she messaged him to meet her at specific GPS co-ordinates, that were out of camera range, and to bring a ‘borrowed’ car. Night had fallen and he'd waited a full hour outside a research lab - TGR Laboratories - in Queens, before she’d finally jumped in the passenger seat, sporting fake glasses and a white lab coat.

“And you are?” he asked cautiously.

“Jane Martin,” she responded brightly. “CDC Inspector.”

“And I am?”

“Jane’s best bud! Did you bring anything stealthy?”

He flourished his fully loaded SIG-Sauer, but Root merely gave him the ‘kindergarten teacher look’ she usually saved for when dumbing down IT concepts for him.

“We’re breaking in, John. Not storming the place.”

“We’re not doing either unless you tell me why we are here.”

Tugging the white coat off her shoulders, she explained.

“The Machine accessed what data it could from the late James Ko's medical records and thinks whatever disease he had was in some way manufactured to attack certain DNA strands. She’s done a sweep around all possible research labs, and not only does she predict it came from TGR, but that they also have an antidote.” She bundled her glasses up with the discarded coat and dumped them in the footwell. “CDC Jane did a little nosing around as part of her inspection earlier, but I’ll need to access their computer to find exactly where they are storing what we need.”

“Security?”

“Dennis on the front desk has a panic button, but he’s a sweetheart and let me have two candies from the welcome bowl.”

“One more tiny thing,” she added as they alighted the car. “There is possible Samaritan interest. I think I saw three goons in suits and earpieces that didn’t look like they knew one end of a pipette from another.”

John slammed his door shut and glared. “Samaritan is behind this? To get to Harold?”

“The Machine doesn’t think so, but we need to be careful. Get in, take what we need, get out. Try not to make it the O.K. Corral.”

“Copy that,” he said, but in his mind, he was clear that nothing was going to stop him if this was indeed a plan to kill Harold. Surprisingly, Root moved quickly to grab at his sleeve to stop him.

“Hey,” she said. “We all want Harold back safe and well. Have a little faith. The Machine is looking out for him. That’s why she’s sent us here.”

Weighing her faith against his anger, but mostly just to appease her, John pulled on his black balaclava to cover his face. Root smiled and pulled on her own. “OK then, stealthy best buds!”

Avoiding the security cameras, Root led them around the back to a fire escape. “I might have accidentally broken the window lock on the third floor,” she threw out. Access was simple and he followed her into a darkened incubation lab with empty work benches up the middle. At the far end was a secure computer terminal and John stood guard as Root hit keys and screens flew faster than he could’ve read even if he’d wanted to. The outside corridor had basic service lighting, but the lab itself was lit only by Root’s hacking. There was an unpleasant smell of disinfectant that hung like a shroud around the room.

“Damn,” she swore softly. “It’s not here.”

John joined her to look.

“They’ve listed all their stock of possible antidote as having been collected two hours ago,” she explained. “It went to…” The keys clicked rapidly. “Looks like a bogus company...” She sat back, in shock. “We’re too late. Samaritan already has it.”

John felt his own pulse race. “All of it?”

“Hold it!” a voice commanded from the doorway, and John cursed himself for being distracted. He turned slowly to see an aging security guard take a couple of awkward steps into the room. John assessed the man had a weakness in his left leg that he might be able to exploit. However, this guard was no dummy and stopped well short of range. He’d also positioned himself so the corridor light didn’t silhouette him as a target, and there was no nervous waving of his gun either, just practiced expertise. ‘Dennis’ may well have been a sweetheart with candies to spare, but John saw enough to admire that, though he may be well over sixty, the guy was ex-military and still a pro.

Just as he was working out how to incapacitate the guy without actually hurting him, two other men entered behind them all and turned on the lights. Bright florescent tubes showed them to be smart-suited, younger, arrogant, carrying Samaritan issue handguns and just generally less concerned with their safety. Even the guard gave a sour look of displeasure.

“That’s OK, Dennis, we’ll take it from here,” one of them said.

“No thanks,” the older man responded stiffly, standing his ground. “These are my prisoners. You guys can go call the cops.”

In a swift blur, the agent who spoke, changed his aim and, with absolute malice, shot Dennis in the back. He fell headfirst to the floor with a sickening thud as John and Root both dived for what limited cover they could find. With experience, John took out the room lights, but after that, they could only fire randomly, wildly, simply to keep their attackers at bay, because their tactical position was poor and everyone in the room knew it.

“Maybe you should surrender now?” the talkative agent suggested.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Root shouted back and loosened a couple of shots in his direction.

“It’s up to you if you just want to waste bullets.”

Suddenly, four rapid fire shots flew out behind everyone and the two Samaritan agents fell to the floor. From the doorway, Sameen Shaw prowled in.

“See,” she said, “No bullets wasted.”

“Oh my God, Shaw!” Root was up in a flash, her eyes dancing with brightness. “It’s really you!”

“Where have you been?” John asked more cautiously. She looked reassuringly the same as he’d seen her at the Stock Exchange, but there had been indications that Samaritan wasn’t above experimental brain surgery. It was impossible to believe she was still, just, Shaw.

“Figured there was no point in waiting for you guys to come rescue me,” She certainly sounded like Shaw. “So I got a new hobby. I’ve been tracking Samaritan agents, thinning the herd.”

“Why didn’t you come straight to us?”

“Because I don’t know if this is real. I thought it was, and yet when you guys just magically show up, bad things start to happen, so maybe it’s not real?” She scratched behind her ear absently.

“You’re not making a lot of sense, Shaw.”

Root was beyond happy though. “All that matters is that the Machine led you here. She brought you back to me.”

However, her tender sentiment was disrupted by the arrival of a third Samaritan agent brandishing an assault rifle. Shaw shot him in the head before he even raised it. John had to admit that some things never changed.

“So much for not making it look like the OK Corral,” Root said dryly, then recovered herself to continue with the mission in hand. “Samaritan stole the rest of the antidote, it wants what happened to James Ko to spread, to kill more people in the hospital. Maybe I can pull the research notes, get the formula.”

Shaw accepted the information dump phlegmatically. “I’ll secure our escape route,” she said and ghosted away to the corridor.

The main tasks assigned, John opted to check the three agents for signs of further threat but, whatever had happened to Shaw, her deadly accuracy had not been affected by it. Dennis the security guard, though face down, still had a pulse though and John felt a strong sense of relief for the older man. Patting him down, he felt under his chest for blood or any kind of evidence of an exit wound. The guard grunted and tried to move.

“Stay still,” John whispered. “The bullet is still in your shoulder. Entry point seems too high to have hit your lungs, but best wait for the medics.”

“Army, huh?” Dennis deduced, and grunted when John made no reply. “Those guys dead?”

“Yup.” It seemed churlish not to answer that one.

Dennis painfully rotated his head to get a look at the shooters. As he twisted, John supported his collarbone as carefully as he could. His life felt precious in his hands.

“Usually better to face things,” the guard said weakly. “Least that way you know.”

Shaking his head, John said, “You’re not going to die of this.”

“Damn right I’m not.” Dennis wheezed a little laugh. “Had my eye on those bastards for a while. Shouldn’t have turned my back on them.” He started coughing and John held him tightly to stop any movement affecting the embedded bullet. “All sorts of bad guys been here recently. I was thinking of quitting but the Health Plan is excellent.” The breaths became shallower.

“Stay with me,” John urged.

“I ain’t going nowhere, kid.” Dennis got his cough under control. “Not my first time being shot. Vietnam ‘69.”

John smiled and felt like he had a million questions, but Root had finished at the computer and was waving a data stick.

“Got it,” she said. “We can take this to another lab, hopefully they can make another batch in time.”

“Solve the puzzle, get another clue,” Shaw said softly from the doorway.

John was reluctant to leave his fellow veteran on his own, but Root nudged him with her foot.

“Paramedics are on their way and they know exactly where to find him.” She looked at John meaningfully. “We have to go _now._”

“Yeah, go kid. I’m not dying anytime soon” Reluctantly, John rose to follow her as Dennis mumbled, “Appreciate you sticking around for as long as you have. Don’t worry. I got that Health Plan to enjoy remember?”

The three of them made it to the car safely and crossed an ambulance within a couple of minutes. Shaw and Root had both taken to the back seats so John drove. He was pleased to have Shaw back, but concerned over her behavior. Overall, he felt sadness wash over him because somehow, he knew things wouldn’t be the same again. That and their mission had only been a partial success. They had the research notes, but not the actual physical antidote to save Harold’s life.

Shaw was saying nothing and even Root was quiet, so he flicked on the radio for distraction. A local news station was grinding out what passed as topics of interest. Nothing really interested John.

“_The CDC have announced a major breakthrough tonight. After the two earlier reported deaths, the other four critical patients have been treated with a new wonder drug and are making a startling recovery. Seventeen people in all remain in isolation, but that’s great news isn’t it, Bob?”_

Bob was some sort of chirpy traffic announcer whose views on the matter, John couldn’t care less about. He flicked around desperately to find another station and more details. Six out of seventeen people had fallen seriously ill and there had been another death besides James Ko? He realized he was holding his breath in tentative relief that maybe Harold was going to be OK, after all? Unless the other death…? No. He pulled up at a red light and forced himself not to consider the negative possibilities. As he did so, the rear door opened, and Shaw jumped out and ran across a block and into a tree-lined park. Root flew immediately behind her and car horns blew as the light changed and John was forced to move off and find somewhere to park.

Within a couple of minutes, he caught up with them, framed by moonlight, having some sort of standoff. Shaw was keeping Root at a distance by waving her gun and she looked incredibly agitated by her standards. He’d seen her angry, but never so doubtful and distressed. It made him want to burn Samaritan down to the ground, but he guessed he’d have to get in line after Root. He drew his own weapon as a precaution and moved stealthily forward.

“Samaritan as hero?” Shaw was saying. “Samaritan has saved everyone by producing an antidote?” She was scratching the back of her ear again. “Because this is usually the part where the creepy kid shows up and monologues about new world order.”

A slight crunch under his foot betrayed his approach and Shaw targeted her gun at him. Her stance had changed from distracted to purposeful. She was perfectly prepared to shoot him and John knew it.

“John, lower your weapon,” Root said carefully.

“You sure about this, Root?”

“Stand down, John,” she replied firmly.

He understood the tone of her voice, this was not the kindergarten teacher telling him, this was the professional killer recognizing the seriousness of the position. Obeying, he dropped back, gun to his side, ready to spring to action if required, but trusting Root’s lead and stronger connection.

“That’s better.” Root gave her complete attention to Shaw and smiled. “What happened to you, Sameen?”

“I escaped a week ago. I couldn’t come and find you because Samaritan ran these simulations directly in my brain. Trying to turn me against you all. To kill you all.”

“Obviously they failed.”

“No, because that’s exactly what I did, over 7000 times. The simplest way to break someone is to rob them of their reality.”

John found himself dwelling on his own time as an interrogator, and on the times that he’d been on the receiving end of physical torture. Despite his experience he still found Samaritan’s approach to be horrific in it’s cold, calculating relentlessness.

“This moment _is_ real,” Root pleaded.

“Every time I thought I found you all, covers were immediately blown, and people died. Even if this is real, you are not safe as long as I am alive and near you. I could turn on you at any moment or lead them to the Machine.”

“Have a little faith. The Machine brought us all here, brought us together.” Root took a step nearer.

“I killed a lot of people in those simulations. And yet the only person I couldn’t kill was you.” Shockingly, Shaw turned the gun to her own head. “So, I killed myself, over and over again. And I’d rather do that here than risk _your_ life.”

Root reacted swiftly by jamming her weapon under her own chin.

“OK, Sameen. We’ll play it your way. You can’t live with me? I can’t live without you.”

Shaw was aghast at the move. “You _really_ are insane,” she said in disbelief, her resolve clearly shaken.

“Never been much of a believer,” Root said, pressing her advantage and closing the gap between them. “But I’m happy to think, if it ends now, we’d go hand-in-hand through the gates of eternity together. What do you think?” Her eyes flashed in the moonlight. “Want to see what happens?”

After a couple of deep breaths, Shaw lowered her gun and restored the safety.

“Damnit, Root.”

Hands reached out for assurance, for recognition, and for love. Eventually they hugged, nervously at first and then with growing confidence.

“You’re too important to me,” Root mumbled.

“You’re still incredibly annoying to me,” Shaw responded, but that was their game, as they held each other closely.

John looked away, his own thoughts swept up with memories of Harold stubbornly insisting he was going to die on the rooftop with John, whether or not he let him try to defuse his bomb vest, and he felt a sense of shame that he couldn’t be as direct as Root when it came to his feelings. She’d just bulldozed her way forward. Risked everything until Shaw had backed down. He was in no doubt Root would have pulled the trigger if Shaw had. He couldn’t have stopped her in time, and anyway she’d earned the right to decide her own ending. She’d fought tirelessly to find Shaw, they all had, but it meant her very life to Root. He respected that, because as Dennis had said, you’ve got to meet things face on.

The two women had walked past him, and over her shoulder, Root chided, “Come on, Lurch, we haven’t got all night.”

Samaritan was playing genetic games beyond his comprehension and he might not get another chance to talk about his feelings. If they were all going to die, then he needed to heed that advice. He followed them slowly back to the car, full of his own thoughts and feelings, and only half listening to their bickering voices.

_“I get this has to be real, just because you’re more batshit crazy that Samaritan ever predicted, but I’m still telling you, I’ve done this a lot, and it always goes wrong.”_

_“Samaritan doesn’t know everything. It doesn’t have the capacity to care the way the Machine does. And that’s why she will help us win.”_

_“Fine, fine. But if the world goes away tomorrow, then that’s on you, right?”_


End file.
